The Smith's Tale
by Sharrukin
Summary: When Ivar Ragnarsson came home to Skyrim, all he wanted was to find a quiet corner of the world and make an honest living. This is the story of how an ordinary smith discovered he was anything but ordinary . . . and how he fought, feasted, and loved his way across the land and into a most unexpected destiny. Skyrim as told in 1000-word vignettes.
1. Survivors

_**17 Last Seed, 4E 201, Riverwood**_

Voices sounded, deep and male, just outside the front door. A small girl-child playing in the corner looked up, suddenly excited at the prospect of visitors.

The door slammed open, and _three_ men ambled into the house.

Alvor the smith came first. "Sigrid! We have company!"

Behind Alvor came two other men: both of them big, in Imperial gear, unbuckling sword-belts and setting aside weapons in honor of their host. In their uniforms they strongly resembled each other, but once helms came off they were clearly different men. Hadvar, the smith's nephew, wore a kindly face, clean-shaven, with short hair and hazel eyes. The other was a stranger, cruel and grim in appearance, with a scar under his right eye, his russet hair longer, a full but neatly-trimmed beard, and eyes the color of light on the sea.

A blond woman emerged from the basement, her eyes quickly taking in her visitors. Alvor and Hadvar both smiled at her, but the stranger remained grim and silent.

For the most part. Only she saw the momentary gleam in his eye as he took in the clean lines of her face, the full shapeliness of her body. She frowned slightly and glanced toward her husband, the smith. When she looked back, the stranger had taken the hint and no longer watched her.

She decided to take refuge in hospitality. "Hadvar, we've been worried about you. Come, you two must be hungry. Sit down and I'll get you something to eat . . . and what about your guest?"

The stranger made an odd gesture, a half-bow in her direction. His voice sounded deep but surprisingly gentle. "Men call me Ivar, son of Ragnar the Smith."

Alvor cleared his throat and turned to Hadvar. "Now, then, boy. What's the big mystery? What are you doing here, looking like you lost an argument with a cave bear?"

Ivar pulled a chair out from the table, sat down a few feet away, listening as Halvar told his tale. When Sigrid leaned past him to place bread and cheese on the table, he took a share but paid her no more attention.

"I thought, maybe you could help us out," Hadvar finished. "Food, supplies, a place to stay."

"Of course. Any friend of Hadvar's is a friend of mine. I'm glad to help however I can." The smith cocked his head, watching the stranger. "What's your story, friend?"

"Halvar left out one detail," said Ivar. "When I came to Helgen, I was a prisoner under his guard."

"Nothing to worry about, uncle," Halvar hastened to say. "The Legion carried out an ambush for some Stormcloaks on the border this morning. Ivar here had the bad luck to be crossing into Skyrim on that same road. He got caught up in our sweep. There's no crime on his head that I know of."

"So. Newcomer to Skyrim, then?"

"No. I was born in Whiterun."

Alvor nodded. "You look like a Nord, sure enough, though you talk funny."

"I've lived most of my life in Cyrodiil," Ivar explained. "My father went there when I was a lad, to do smith-work for the legions. I suppose I've picked up their way of talk. To me, _you_ sound funny."

"I don't doubt it," the smith chuckled. "What brought you back home?"

Ivar shook his head. "My father died. I couldn't take up his position. He always spoke of Skyrim with longing. I decided to come see for myself, settle down and earn a living here."

"You've nothing on your track, then?" Alvor asked shrewdly.

"Husband!" Sigrid rebuked him. "This is a guest."

Ivar lifted a hand to make peace. "No. I'm not running away from anything that would do me ill credit. Well, an execution order from General Tullius, but Hadvar says that's an easy mistake to repair."

"I told Ivar he should join the legions here," Hadvar agreed. "He's got a good arm with a blade. With a hammer too, if I guess right."

"Smith's son should be a smith in his turn," said Alvor.

"I have some skill," Ivar admitted. "If I'm going to be in Riverwood for a while, I can help you at the forge."

"You would be welcome." The smith frowned, leaned forward and lowered his voice. "There's something I hope you'll do for me, though. For Riverwood."

Ivar listened, no expression on his scarred face.

"If there's a dragon on the loose, Riverwood is defenseless. We don't even have much of a wall. The jarl at Whiterun needs to know what happened at Helgen. He needs to send soldiers. If Hadvar is heading for Solitude, that leaves us with no one else who saw the dragon."

"I don't know the jarl."

"Jarl Balgruuf? A good man. So far he's managed to keep Whiterun out of the civil war. I worry it can't last, though."

"Which side does he favor?"

Alvor snorted. "I don't think he likes either Ulfric or Elisif very much. Who can blame him? I've no doubt he'll prove loyal to the Empire in the end. He may not approve of the treaty with the Thalmor, but he knows better than to think the Stormcloaks can do better against them than the Empire."

Ivar frowned slightly. "The Empire hasn't done all that well against them so far."

"That's only a matter of time," said Alvor firmly. "You don't like the Thalmor, do you?"

"They were with General Tullius when I was caught this morning . . . and that's not all. Every terrible thing that's ever happened in my life, the Thalmor stood behind it if you look close enough. My father died because of them."

Alvor and Hadvar both stared at the stranger.

Slowly Ivar reached under his jerkin, producing a pendant that had been tucked into a hidden pocket rather than worn around his neck. It glimmered in the candlelight: a tiny war-hammer made of bronze.

Understanding rose in the other men's faces, like the sun into a clear sky.


	2. Hunter

_**18 Last Seed, 4E 201, Southwest of Riverwood**_

The hunter eased out from behind his cover, slowly and silently, just enough to get a clear glimpse of his target.

_One bandit. Half-drunk, from the look of him._

Arrow to the string of the cheap longbow. Pull, slow and steady, to the optimum draw. Carefully control the breath. A moment of hyper-awareness: sunlight, the scent of mountain flowers, a cool breeze wafting down from the Throat of the World.

Release.

At the last moment, the bandit fumbled the ceramic bottle of ale from which he had been swilling. It fell. The bandit made a sudden futile grab, and cursed as it spilled most of its contents on the ground.

The arrow struck the stone wall where its target had been standing moments before, and rebounded with a sharp _tick_.

The bandit stared stupidly . . . but only for an instant.

_Talos best and most mighty_, thought the hunter in disgust. _Not quite drunk enough._

The bandit managed one querulous shout of alarm, and then seventeen stone of armored swordsman erupted out of the nearby brush and attacked.

Ivar Ragnarsson knew the dangers of a fair fight against another armed man. He therefore made it a rule never to fight fairly if he could possibly avoid it. An attack out of ambush constituted a very good start.

The bandit slashed with a sword, but the blow only wasted its energy with a solid _thump_ against Ivar's shield. Then the iron shield-boss exploded into his face and shattered his jaw. All thought of defense gone for a moment, he put up no resistance to the vicious stabbing thrust that tore out his guts.

Ivar listened for a few moments, heard nothing. Then he carefully eased open the wooden doors the bandit had been guarding, and descended into the mine behind them.

He soon discovered that the bandits working the old iron mine had _no concept_ of proper security. In the legions they would have been flogged within an inch of their lives for such laxity.

"Do you hear something?"

"Relax. There's a guard at the front door, remember? Not to mention that deadfall trap."

Ivar, who had seen the deadfall trap and bypassed its tripwire, charged out of the darkness. After a few moments of considerable violence, he stepped over two bodies and moved on.

"Hey. The bridge is down. I thought we put a guard on the front door."

"Yes. Maybe it's Hrolf and Ingvar coming in for their shift in the mine."

"I don't know. I don't see them."

Ivar, who had lowered the bridge, leaped out of ambush. More violence followed.

The mine itself ended in a large open space, with water and sunlight pouring down from above. Ivar could put away his sword, bring out the cheap longbow once again, and take plenty of time to set up his shots. A female bandit clutched helplessly at the arrow sprouting from between her breasts, and then topped off a crude catwalk into the water below. A second bandit emerged from a tunnel to see what had happened, and earned an arrow in the eye for his trouble.

After several minutes of careful listening, Ivar put away his weapons and sighed in disgust.

That evening he returned to Alvor's smithy, laden with gear.

"I see you had good luck," said the smith, as his guest laid out the day's loot. Pieces of leather armor, iron daggers and swords, a steel mace that had dented Ivar's shield and numbed his arm for several minutes.

"No luck was involved," said Ivar. "The bandits were stupid. In Cyrodiil they wouldn't have survived a week."

"Then your luck was to meet stupid bandits."

Ivar snorted in amusement. "Can you use these?"

"Sure. Cheap stuff, most of it, but I can sell it to people who pass by on the road. Or melt down the metal for nails and horseshoes. I'll give you a hundred septims for the lot."

Ivar nodded in agreement. "Plenty of good ore left in the mine, too. I brought a few pigs that the bandits had made. Mind if I use some of that to show you the quality of my work?"

"Go ahead." Alvor examined his guest with a practiced eye. "You have guild sanction?"

"I served my time as prentice to my father. Had a journeyman's license, but that got lost after he died and I had to start traveling quick."

"We aren't quite so formal in Skyrim. Satisfy me that you know which end of the hammer to hold and I'll give you a journeyman's mark. You might have to go to one of the big towns, if you want to find enough master-smiths to elevate you."

"I'm in no hurry."

"You know, there are more bandits around here. Civil war has driven a lot of masterless men and women into the hills. They might be stupid too."

"Maybe I'll go hunting," said Ivar. "Not my usual line of work, but if it brings in loot I can sell and ore for the forge . . ."

"Until you go to Whiterun." Alvor frowned at his guest. "I wish you would think about that. You could get word to the jarl. You could meet some master smiths too. Eorlund Gray-Mane has forgotten more about smith-craft than I ever learned."

"I'm in no hurry," said Ivar once more. "I'm not so sure I see the need. The dragon flew off and there's been no sign of him since."

"He'll be back soon enough. There some reason you don't want to go to Whiterun, where you were born?"

Ivar grunted. "Whiterun means too many people, and the jarl's guards sticking their noses into my business, and the civil war, and who knows what other sort of filthy politics going on. I like Riverwood. It's quiet. I could settle down here. If there's not enough smith-work for both of us, then I could find something else to do."

"Nothing wrong with that, I suppose," Alvor sighed. "For now."


	3. Proposition

_**19 Last Seed, 4E 201, Riverwood**_

A big man was Ivar Ragnarrson, and tireless at the forge, but the day had been _very_ long.

Up before the sun. Hours at the forge, to build a set of armor out of good Nordic steel. More hours to hunt game, some of it two-legged, on the north side of the White River. By the time he returned to the village, carrying more bandits' gear for Alvor, he felt almost too tired to pay attention to the price.

At least the armor turned out well-made and properly fitted. Alvor inspected the pieces, grunted with approval, and gave him a new journeyman's mark. Then the gear served him well during his expedition across the river, deflecting arrows and turning blade-strokes.

Still, it felt good to strip the armor off, clean it carefully and stack it inside Alvor's house, and then walk down to the river for a bath. Cold water sluiced away hours of fatigue and sweat. Ivar felt almost human when he emerged from the river, lolling naked on the shore to let the mountain breeze and the last rays of direct sunlight dry his skin.

At one point he felt eyes on him, but he pretended to take no notice.

_Must be Sigrid,_ he thought with some small satisfaction_. Let her see what she refused, then. Talos preserve me from a smith's sharp-tongued wife._

Whoever it was, there was no sign by the time Ivar rose to put on his trousers and tunic for the evening.

The hush of late twilight had set in by the time he slowly climbed the steps of the Sleeping Giant, opening the door to step into warm firelight. The tavern seemed busy enough, a few of the villagers already working on an evening meal or a mug of ale. A trio of Redguard men sat at a table in a dark corner, keeping to themselves and watching the rest of the company with sharp eyes. Ivar heard comfortable tavern-sounds: rumble of conversation, short burst of feminine laughter, a would-be bard assaulting a lute.

He sat down at an empty table. The serving-maid was older and rather cold in manner, he noticed, and decided not to try a moment's flirtation. He ordered bread, goat-cheese, sliced beef, redroots, and ale.

He had finished his meal, and was enjoying a third tankard of ale, when a shadow fell across his table. He glanced up and saw two villagers standing close at hand, watching him. Both of them were Imperials, smaller and darker than most Nords, and Ivar saw a clear family resemblance between them. The man looked ordinary enough, but on the woman their shared features took on a sharp-edged, almost feline beauty. She was slim but sweetly curved, Ivar noticed. He smiled inwardly.

"Good evening," said the man. "May we share your table for a time?"

"I suppose." Ivar rose for a moment as they seated themselves, his gaze lingering on the woman. "How may I serve you?"

"Thank you," she said, her voice low and musical.

"Eh? For what?"

"_How may I serve you,"_ she quoted. "It's so _good_ to meet refined manners, for a change."

"I lived in Cyrodiil most of my life," said Ivar, "and it's obvious you have a boon to ask."

"In fact, we do." The man glanced at his companion, who continued to watch Ivar with an intent stare. "My name is Lucan Valerius, and this is my sister Camilla. We own the trading post up the street. We've been hearing a lot about you ever since you arrived in the village. Surprised you haven't come by our store."

"Haven't had time yet, that's all." Ivar gave Camilla a small, lazy smile. She returned it. "I'm sure I'll have reason to stop by before long."

"Well," said Lucan, clearing his throat nervously. "There's a favor you might do for us. We keep a token in our store, almost a good-luck charm. A claw made out of gold. It's been stolen."

Ivar took a sip of his ale. "Go on."

"It happened just before you arrived in Riverwood. Someone broke into the store in the dead of night, so quiet neither of us heard a thing. We only realized when we came downstairs in the morning, found the door forced and the Golden Claw gone."

"No common bandits," observed Ivar. "That kind of sneak-thievery isn't something you'd expect from Nords."

"No," agreed Camilla. "We think we know who was involved, though we can't prove it. A dark elf came through Riverwood a week ago. He stopped at our store and asked about the Claw. At the time we thought he was only curious . . ."

Ivar nodded. "But if anyone could steal it out from under your noses like that, it would be a Dunmer thief. I'm sorry, but your trinket is probably long gone by now."

"We suspect otherwise," said Lucan. "We've been hearing rumors for the last few days, of bandits taking up residence across the river, up around the Bleak Falls ruins. Most bandits are smart enough to stay far away from there. So I was thinking . . . what if the Claw has something to do with the barrow? Maybe the thief is after something bigger than our little good-luck charm."

"Hmm." Ivar began to shake his head. "I know I've been hunting bandits since I came here, but it's not my proper work. I'm just a smith."

"A smith who is also talented with a blade," murmured Camilla. "Please, Ivar. We can afford to pay a substantial reward . . . and I would be _most_ grateful."

Ivar watched her, none of his thoughts showing on his face. _You can't be saying what I think you're saying. Not in front of your brother, and who knows how many other village men who must lie awake at night, thinking about that lovely face._

He had to admit, she _was_ quite pretty. After a moment, he found himself nodding in agreement.


	4. The Swift and the Dead

_**20 Last Seed, 4E 201, Bleak Falls Barrow**_

Ivar knew there would be trouble when he saw the first webs hanging from the walls and ceiling.

_Father told me about these. Cold-dwelling spiders the size of large dogs._

_Divines, I hate spiders._

"Is . . . is someone coming?"

A voice. Ivar began to move quietly once more. He could move _very_ quietly, for a large man wearing a full suit of steel armor.

"Is that you, Harknir? Bjorn? Soling?"

_Good to know some of the names of the ones I've killed,_ thought Ivar. _A man shouldn't go to Sovngarde without leaving even a name behind._

Ivar chopped at another set of webs that blocked his path. Heavy webs, this time. Thick.

"Oh, thank the Divines. Get me down from here!"

Ivar had just a moment to take in the scene: a smallish chamber, the walls almost covered with webs, dry corpses of giant rats and men swaddled in them. A living elf at the far end of the room, bound up so tight he could barely move.

Then a spider the size of a _horse_ dropped down from above, and Ivar found himself fighting for his life.

He survived by concentrating on the fundamentals. Shield held high, to keep the fangs away even if it wasn't much good against long legs with hooked claws. Sword held ready, to slash at a leg or stab at the body. Stand your ground, no matter how much you want to run. Show the enemy your back, and you're a dead man as well as a coward.

Somehow he managed not to vomit in disgust. _Talos, I hate spiders!_

Finally the monster learned fear, bunching up its legs and backing away. This two-legged prey had proven too hard-shelled and pointy to make an easy meal.

Ivar advanced, waiting for his moment . . . and then _stabbed_, his steel blade sinking in almost to the hilt.

The spider shrieked, dribbled noxious fluids on the floor, and died.

"Oh, fine job. Now _get me down!"_

Ivar cleaned his blade with deliberation, watching the elf thoughtfully while he did it.

"Are you deaf, Nord, or just an idiot? _Cut me down!"_

"There's the matter of some stolen property," said Ivar. "A claw made out of gold. Hand it over."

"What?" The elf shook his head, as far as he could with the webs holding him in place. "I don't know what you're talking about."

"All right." Ivar turned as if to go.

"_Wait!"_ The elf thrashed in his bonds, to no avail. "I have it here. Get me down and it's yours."

The smith turned back to regard the elf. "Glad you saw reason. Just to remind you: I killed the bandits you hired to help you get into this place. I killed the spider that had you at its mercy. You would do well not to play me false."

"Of course, of course."

Ivar went to work. Soon the elf stood freely on the floor, sighing with relief.

"The Claw," Ivar reminded him.

"Of course. I have it right here . . ."

Quick as a flash, the elf reached into a pouch at his side and flung a handful of sand and ashes into Ivar's eyes.

The smith recoiled with a bellow of outrage, shaking his head and pawing at his face.

"You fool," he heard. "Why should I share the treasure with anyone?"

By the time his eyes saw clearly again, the dark elf had gone.

_By Talos, I'll have that thief's hide_, he thought. _Though I suppose it's well he didn't put a dagger in my side while I was distracted._

Muttering darkly to himself, Ivar gripped his sword and shield once more, and moved on.

At first he met no enemies. Then he descended into the crypts, where the ancient ones slept. Some of them, it turned out, slept restlessly.

He soon found that _draugr_ were tough and viciously strong, but rather slow. A stab to the heart or the guts wasn't always enough, but the walking dead could be put down if a man was willing to work at it. Rather like hammering steel into shape.

He found the dark elf in the second chamber of the crypts, a great wound in his belly and a look of terror on his face. A disjointed _draugr_ lay close by, and it wasn't one of the ones Ivar had slain. The smith stood over the body and shook his head. "Well, you may have been a fool and a liar, but at least you weren't a coward. I wonder what _your_ name was?"

A few moments of searching the corpse, and Ivar had his answer. _Arvel the Swift_, he read in a small journal. The dark elf had stolen the Golden Claw to serve as a key to something called the Hall of Stories. He wrote of fantastic treasure, and _the power of the Old Nords_.

Ivar tucked the journal into his pack for later study. Then he fumbled through the thief's belt pouch and found the Golden Claw. "Hmm. Pretty little trinket. Wonder how grateful that Camilla wench plans to be for it?"

_I should go back now,_ he thought to himself. _No sense disturbing any more of my ancient kinsmen._

He searched the destroyed _druagr_ as well, of course. Waste not, want not.

Then he found it, hanging around the neck of one of the dry corpses that had been walking and swinging a blade at him a few minutes before. A war-hammer pendant, similar to his own.

_Strange. Talos is a new god, no more than a few centuries since his ascension. These crypts go back thousands of years._

_Talos, best and most mighty, are you trying to tell me something?_

After a few moments of consideration, Ivar lifted the hammer-pendant and placed it around his own neck. He tucked the hammer into his tunic, of course. No need to ask for trouble.

Then he continued on, deeper into the crypts.


	5. The First Word

_**20 Last Seed, 4E 201, Bleak Falls Barrow**_

_Crash._

A _draugr_ emerged from its elaborate coffin, finding Ivar ready.

_Big cave with a single coffin right in the middle,_ the smith thought. _I'd have to be a fool to be caught off my guard_.

This _draugr_ seemed more formidable. It advanced quickly, massive blade at the ready, and its eyes glowed with malice. When its first stroke landed on Ivar's shield, the force of it rocked the smith back and numbed his arm.

Then it _spoke_.

"**Fus ro **_**dah!"**_

Unrelenting force slammed into Ivar, sending him reeling. He nearly lost his balance. His eyes went wide behind his shield.

The _draugr_ attacked viciously, following up its momentary advantage.

A lightning-fast exchange of blows. Ivar took the strokes on his shield, began to press back.

The _draugr_ opened its mouth again.

Ivar prepared himself, a scowl of determination on his features.

"**Fus ro **_**dah!"**_

This time the smith held his ground, braced on his rear leg, and replied with a vicious shield-bash.

For once, the blow connected. Now the _draugr_ gave way.

Strike after strike, like hewing wood. Ivar's arm began to weary. Then the creature made a mistake, its blade out of position.

The smith's sword swept out in a great arc, almost taking the thing's head off. It went down.

Ivar stood for a moment, panting, catching his breath.

_Looks like plenty of loot here_. _But what's that, behind the coffin?_

A half-circle wall, some manner of carving on it, a great stylized dragon's head rising above.

Ivar stepped forward, only to be caught up as if in a whirlwind. The light seemed to dim. He fell to his knees, dropped his sword, clenched his forehead in his hand as if trying to squeeze out his own eyes. He did not scream. Not quite.

In all the world, there was nothing but a single Word.

_**Fus.**_

* * *

"Some more weapons and armor," said Ivar as he arrived at the forge.

"That's good," said Alvor, "but you're starting to overload me. Not _that_ many travelers come through looking for smith-work."

"I don't think that will be a problem. What do you make of this?" Ivar reached into his pack and produced a stone tablet, setting it on the smith's work-table.

Alvor bent close, not touching the stone but examining it intently. "Old work. Very old. Looks almost like a map of Skyrim. The shape is right. Look: the sea here off the north coast, mountains here and here . . ."

"There's an inscription on the back." Ivar carefully turned the stone over.

"Shor's bones!" Alvor shook his head in wonder. "Those look like dragon's runes. I sure can't read them. You'll have to find a loremaster for that."

"No one in Riverwood?"

Alvor barked a sour laugh. "We're honest, hardworking folk here. None of _us_ have time for that sort of learning."

Ivar sighed. "Then I suppose I'll have to go to Whiterun after all."

"Why?" The older smith gave Ivar a sharp glance. "Why should an old carved stone send you there when my own good advice didn't?"

"I'm not sure." Ivar took a deep breath. "Something _happened_ to me down there. Don't think I'll be able to rest easy until I understand what it was. This stone may have something to do with it."

"Go tampering with ancient things, you risk the attention of powers far greater than men. Be glad you're still hale and whole."

"I am." Ivar picked up the stone and replaced it in his back. "Well, I've another delivery to make, and then it's the inn for me this evening. I need a belly full of mead after the day I've had."

Alvor nodded shrewdly. "Off to Whiterun in the morning?"

"Soon as the sun rises. Thank you for your help, friend." Ivar gripped the older man's arm firmly.

"Don't mention it. We smiths have to stick together."

* * *

He met Camilla inside the trading post, her brother busying himself behind the counter so he could pretend not to watch.

"Here it is." Ivar reached into his tunic and produced the Golden Claw. Her fingers brushed his as she took the trinket, and he felt warmth.

"Oh. Thank you." The girl examined the Claw closely. "This means so much to my brother and me."

"I'm glad I could be of help."

She glanced down and then into his eyes, her voice an intimate purr. "I would like to repay you. Take a room at the inn tonight."

"Are you sure about that, lass? I warn you, I'm a follower of Dibella, not Mara."

"I don't care. I'll probably end up marrying some farmer, or an old merchant who can invest in the trading post and make my brother's fortune." She rested a hand on his forearm. "Is it wrong, that I want to spend one night in a hero's arms first?"

"I'm no hero. Just a smith, looking for a place to earn an honest living."

"I know better than that. You're a hero. Or you will be, when you stop denying it."

_Divines, save me from the delusions of a naïve girl_.

"Well, I have three rules to live by," he said, bending close to murmur in her ear. "Never cheat a patron, never turn your back on an enemy, and never refuse a woman's affection. I'll see you after dark."

Later she was as good as her word, slipping into his room after the common hall had closed for the night. She seemed innocent but eager, not sure what would work but happy to learn. It didn't take long for her to find delight under his hands and his lips. Her mouth was sweet, her skin very soft, and her body warm as a furnace to his touch. Her nails clawed at his back when he finally took his pleasure of her.

He almost regretted it when she slipped away once more, long before dawn. Almost.

Still, with the sunrise came the long road, and Whiterun in the distance.


	6. Whiterun

_**21 Last Seed, 4E 201, Whiterun**_

As a small child, Ivar had once played in the streets of Whiterun. Now he returned as a grown man. Everything seemed half strange and half familiar. Also smaller.

He was pleased to find a smithy right inside the city gates. He introduced himself to the smiths, a burly Nord and his petite-but-sturdy Imperial wife. Once Ivar showed them his journeyman's mark, dropping his father's name and that of Alvor of Riverwood, they welcomed him gladly. They sold him steel with which to improve his weapons and armor, and talked shop while he did the work.

The woman, Adrianne, clearly took the lead in their partnership. Ivar found her attractive enough, but he stayed carefully respectful in her presence. A fellow smith, after all. Not to mention daughter to the jarl's steward. Not to mention married to a _very big_ man, with a battle-axe close at hand. Ivar smiled politely at her and resolved to treat her solely as a professional colleague.

To be sure, the city had other attractions. Ivar strolled along the road toward the jarl's palace, window-shopping as he went. A hot-tempered Imperial woman, selling produce from a market-stall. A red-haired huntress in revealing leathers, her face marked with a flagrant slash of war-paint. A slim, sweet-faced Nord girl, carrying on a conversation about the merchant's trade. A strapping blond barmaid, leaning against the inn's porch railing and catching his eye with a challenging glare.

_I could grow to like it here_.

The sun stood in the west before Ivar finally reached the jarl's palace. The door-wardens seemed reluctant to admit him, but the mention of dragons soon persuaded them.

At the far end of the great hall, Jarl Bulgruuf slouched in his throne, listening to a debate among his counselors. As the smith approached, one of them saw him, a Dunmer woman in armor. She drew a weapon and strode forward.

"What's the meaning of this interruption?" she demanded. "The jarl is not receiving visitors."

"I have news from Helgen," said Ivar calmly. "About the dragon attack."

"Well, that explains why the guards let you in," she said, putting away her weapon. "Come, then. The jarl will want to speak to you personally."

The smith followed her up to the throne. Balgruuf was a tall man, strong and well-built, with sky-blue eyes and an impressive beard. He examined the smith with keen interest.

"So," said the jarl at last. "You were at Helgen? You saw this dragon with your own eyes?"

"Yes, my lord." Ivar sighed. "I had a very good view, while the Imperials prepared to put my head on the block."

"Really?" Balgruuf snorted in amusement. "Not many would admit to that."

"I'm no criminal. I was only in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Well, that's none of my concern. What I want to know is _exactly_ what happened at Helgen."

"The Imperials captured Ulfric Stormcloak. They were about to execute him, some of his men, a few like me who got caught up in their sweep by accident. Then a dragon swept down out of the sky. Big and black. Perched on top of the highest tower and started leveling the whole place."

"I should have guessed Ulfric would be mixed up in this."

"I don't know if he had anything to do with it, my lord." Ivar stroked his beard thoughtfully. "I was close to him for a few moments, after we all ran for cover. He seemed as surprised as anyone."

"I see." Balgruuf turned to an Imperial standing at his right hand. Ivar looked closely at the man, saw some resemblance to the smith at the city gates. The jarl's steward, no doubt. "What do you say now, Proventus? Shall we continue to trust in the strength of our walls? Against a _dragon?"_

The steward frowned and said nothing.

"My lord," the Dunmer interrupted, "we should send troops to Riverwood at once. It's in the most immediate danger, if that dragon is lurking in the mountains."

"The Jarl of Falkreath will view that as a provocation!" objected Proventus. "He'll assume we're planning to join Ulfric's side and attack him."

"Enough!" Balgruuf rapped sharply on the arm of his throne with the knuckles of one hand. "I'll not stand idly by while a dragon burns my hold and slaughters my people! Irileth, send a detachment to Riverwood at once."

"At once, my lord," said Irileth, immediately turning to issue the orders.

Ivar smiled to himself. _I think I like this jarl._

The steward shook his head, his lips pressed into a thin line, but he made no outward complaint. "I'll return to my own duties, my lord."

Balgruuf nodded curtly, watching Ivar once more with a calculating stare. "You have my thanks, stranger. You've done Whiterun a service, and I won't forget it."

Ivar made a small bow, remembering his Imperial courtesies. "Thank you, my lord."

"How may I reward you?"

"I ask no reward." Ivar thought for a moment. "Other than permission to take up residence here for a time, perhaps. I was born in Whiterun, and now that I've returned I'm searching for honest work."

"You were born here? Who was your father?"

"Ragnar Sigurdsson, called the Smith. I follow his trade."

The jarl's eyes went wide with surprise. "I remember your father well! My first real sword came from his forge. If you're half the smith he was, I'm sure you'll find plenty of work here. I gladly grant you permission to live in the city for as long as you wish."

Ivar thanked the jarl once more.

Balgruuf rose to his feet. "Come. There's something else you might do for me. Let's go find Farengar, my court wizard. He's been looking into a matter, related to these dragons and rumors of dragons."

"You've a loremaster here at your court?" Ivar nodded. "I would very much like to speak to him, my lord."

"Good." The jarl clapped him on the shoulder. "This way . . ."


	7. Rumors of Dragons

_**21 Last Seed, 4E 201, Dragonsreach**_

Ivar found the court wizard of Whiterun difficult to read. He wore a hood and dark robes, concealing all but his hands and part of his face. When he spoke, he sounded much like the smith: a Nord who had spent many years in the urban southlands.

"So the Jarl thinks you can be of use to me?" he mused. "What do you know about dragons?"

"I survived one at Helgen," Ivar answered.

"Indeed? We've been hearing of dragon sightings for days now. Fascinating. The creatures were long thought to be extinct."

"The one I saw did its best to kill me. It did kill almost everyone at Helgen."

"No doubt." Farengar cleared his throat. "Well. The jarl has asked me to investigate. If dragons are returning to Tamriel, then that is a peril even more severe than this damnable civil war."

"I can tell you about the one I saw, but there's something else I need to learn about as well. It might be relevant."

The wizard cocked his head. "What is it?"

"Since Helgen I've been staying in Riverwood. Yesterday I made an expedition into the old ruin high on the mountain slopes just north of there. You know the place?"

Farengar's eyes gleamed deep within his hood. "Yes. Bleak Falls Barrow. I begin to think this is indeed relevant."

"Deep inside I found a chamber called the Hall of Stories. I fought a _draugr_-lord there. Fearsome creature. Then I found this."

He reached into his pack, producing the stone tablet.

The wizard went into transports of scholarly joy. "Yes! The Dragonstone!"

"What is it?"

"A very old map," said Farengar, bending to peer closely at the artifact. "It's mentioned in Egil's _Könungsaga_, with a few obscure references in the _Tareliad_ of Titus Gallius the Elder. I . . . recently learned it might be hidden at Bleak Falls. It shows the location of dragon burial sites throughout Skyrim."

"Dragon _burial sites?"_

"Yes. In the times of legend, when our remote ancestors rebelled against the dragons, their priests buried the slain worms with elaborate funerary rites. The resulting burial mounds can still be seen here and there across Skyrim." The wizard peered at Ivar. "Bleak Falls Barrow has long been thought to be the final resting-place for some of the Dragon Priests and their followers."

"I found plenty of _draugr_ there, that's for sure." Ivar pointed to the tablet. "There's an inscription on the back."

Farengar turned the tablet over. "I see."

"Can you read it?"

"I know the dragon-runes, yes. I studied under Hela Thrice-Versed when I was a young initiate. Hmm." The wizard's finger touched the stone, ever so lightly, tracing the lines of script. _"Het nok un mahlaan drogge erei suleyk se alduin vokrii._ Roughly translated, that might be: _here lie our fallen lords, until the power of Alduin revives."_

"Alduin?" Ivar frowned. "Isn't that the Nordic name for Akatosh?"

Farengar gave him a quick smile. "So pleasant to meet a warrior with some learning. The relationship between Akatosh and Alduin is . . . more complex than that. I suspect a process of syncretism occurred in ancient times, obscuring distinctions between the two. They are both represented as dragons, to be sure, but in Nordic myth Alduin serves as a god of destruction. He is known as _the World-Eater_."

Ivar stroked his beard in deep thought. "Well, I saw some more of this script deep in the barrow."

"Oh?"

"It stood behind the sarcophagus where I found the tablet. A stone wall with a lengthy inscription on it."

"_Fascinating._ I don't suppose you remember any of the inscription?"

Ivar shook his head. "The letters looked like what's on the tablet, sure enough, but I can't read them."

"Pity."

"A strange thing happened to me when I stepped up to look at the runes." The smith frowned, suddenly finding words difficult. "Like the worst headache I've ever had. I went blind and lost all my coordination. Thought I heard a voice, roaring a single word, but it wasn't a _sound_ at all. Everything happened in complete silence. If that makes any sense."

Farengar frowned. "That doesn't sound like anything I've ever heard of before. What was the word?"

Ivar hesitated for a moment, then spoke, flinching slightly as if he feared something startling might happen. _"Fus."_

"That's the ancient word for _force_." The loremaster reached for a scrap of paper and a quill, rapidly sketching a few characters. "Here is how it would appear in the dragon-runes. Did you see this anywhere in the inscription?"

Ivar looked, then closed his eyes, struggling to remember. "Yes," he said at last. "I'm almost certain of it. The third line, about in the middle. It seemed to jump out at me."

"Hmm." Farengar stared at the smith. "Well, this exceeds my learning, and that's not something I say very often. I think if you want to learn more, you will need to visit the Greybeards."

"My father spoke of them. Who are they?"

"A very ancient order of scholars. They seclude themselves atop the Throat of the World, devoting their lives to the study of the dragon language. It's said they keep alive the ancient art of the _thu'um_, or Shout."

"Shout?" Ivar frowned. "Sounds like something out of my father's tales. Though I heard Ulfric Stormcloak used a Shout to kill High King Torygg."

"Jarl Ulfric studied under the Greybeards as a boy," said Farengar. "He must have learned _something_. Perhaps you would as well."

Ivar growled in frustration. "Dragons, dragon language, Shouts . . . I'm just a smith. What has any of this to do with me?"

"I think that's something you will have to discover."

Just then the two men heard rapid footsteps. They turned to the door of the wizard's chamber to see a page standing there, pale and panting.

"The jarl has sent for both of you," he said, once he had caught his breath. "A dragon is attacking the western watch-tower!"


	8. Darkness and Flame

_**21 Last Seed, 4E 201, Western Watchtower**_

_This damned creature is toying with us,_ thought Ivar.

Fighting a dragon at night turned out to be a terrifying experience. One could _hear_ the thing, a great hiss of air over leathery wings up in the sky, but it had a tendency to disappear into the darkness. All the defenders had bows out, staring up into the night, but their target rarely showed itself for more than a moment at a time.

Then a roar, and a great flare of red light, and a guard became a screaming human torch.

Ivar loosed an arrow, then another. He couldn't tell if he was scoring any hits. _Probably Irileth is having better luck._

The dragon swooped down on the top of the tower, its jaws agape, swallowing another guard whole.

Ivar found himself near Irileth, both of them looking in all directions at once. "This is insane!" he panted. "We've got to retreat."

"Never!" shouted the shield-maiden. "Not while I live."

"Well, you'd better think of a way to get that thing to land. Otherwise we're going to run out of guards."

The sound of vast wings, beating the air _just overhead_ . . .

Irileth gave a wordless shout and fired. Ivar spun in place, saw the dragon's great body, and did the same. Then he rolled to the side, his bow flying out of his hands into the dark.

_Slam!_ The dragon's bulk hit the ground where they had stood moments before, and the earth itself shook in response.

The smith rose to his feet, taking his shield by the grips, clawing at the hilt of his sword.

Irileth shouted and charged in from the side, but one of the worm's wings lashed out, batting her aside almost without effort.

Ivar looked up, and saw the dragon considering him with care.

**"Bahlaan hokoron,"** it said. **"Zu'u Mirmulnir, joor."**

"Pleased to make your acquaintance," Ivar muttered. Shield high, sword at ready, he advanced on the dragon.

Terribly fast for all its size, the dragon leaped forward, its great jaws gaping.

The smith bashed with his shield, staying light on his feet, not trying to stand under the full force of the collision. _Thing's likely to shatter my shield-arm if I'm not careful. Not to mention the rest of me._

Again. Jaws wide, fetid breath, glittering eyes. A loud _slam_ against the shield. This time Ivar saw an opportunity to strike back. He opened a cut under the beast's jaw, scattering worm-blood. Some of it slapped the smith in the face. He licked his lips, tasting something like white-hot iron.

The dragon snarled.

A high-pitched yell. Irileth had taken an opportunity to duck _under_ its wing, stabbing at its flank.

_Good idea_. _If it has any soft spots over its vitals, they're certainly not up at this end. Unless . . ._

He pulled a roar from deep in his chest, trying to keep the dragon's attention away from Irileth.

_Slam!_ The head smashed into his shield, almost knocking him off his feet once more.

He slashed wildly, scoring another hit. Another bellow, as loud as he could manage.

It reared up, eyes blazing in the dark, jaws opened wide.

"Come on!" Ivar shouted in contempt. "You going to let a puny thing like me stand up to you?"

It lashed out, like a striking snake.

All of Ivar's instincts told him to cower behind his shield. Instead he held the shield close to his body and _stabbed_ with his sword at full extension, using the dragon's own strength to power the blow.

His sword punched through the roof of the dragon's mouth, into the soft tissues behind. It was immediately wrenched out of his grip. He left the sword in place, scrambling aside to avoid being buried under the worm's writhing bulk.

The sound of the dragon's agony was _terrible_, a growling scream that echoed off the Whiterun walls over a mile away.

In its last moments, the dragon caught Ivar's gaze.

**"Dovahkiin. Niid!"**

It died.

Ivar stood panting in the sudden quiet, not sure what to make of the fact that he still lived. Irileth came out of the darkness, a few surviving guards behind her, marveling at the dead beast.

Then it began: a shimmer of golden light, growing and crackling, like fire surging out of nowhere to consume the dragon's flesh whole. Within moments it blazed, illuminating the darkened plain for a long distance in all directions. It towered, writhed in the air, and then it swept down to wrap Ivar in its embrace.

He stood tall, his eyes wide as madness, his mouth gaping in a silent scream. _Something_ swept into him, moved within him, shone like brilliant sunlight in the darkest corners of his mind. A sense of knowledge, of ancient wisdom and power.

_Power!_

When it was over, Ivar stood trembling in darkness once more, the focus of every eye.

"By the gods. It's like the old tales. Dragonborn."

"Aye. Dragonborn."

Ivar shook his head. _Can't be._

"That's nonsense," Irileth scoffed. "Nothing but superstition."

"All due respect, housecarl, but you ain't a Nord. This is right out of our stories."

"There's one way to know for sure." The first guard who had spoken turned to Ivar. "If you're Dragonborn, you should be able to Shout. Can you?"

"I can't Shout," said Ivar weakly. "Damn it, I'm just a smith."

"Have you tried? Why not see?"

Ivar caught the man's eyes. Even in the darkness and the dim light of torches, he could see awe and wonder there. Something within him responded, demanded the chance to answer it with a display of power. Ivar stood tall, felt his lips and tongue trying to form a Word. He took a deep breath.

**"Fus!"**

Three men staggered backward.

"A Shout!"

"Dragonborn!"

_Talos best and most mighty,_ swore Ivar in silent disgust.

"You see, housecarl? You have to believe it now."

"I don't _have_ to believe anything," said the Dunmer, "but I _am_ glad he's on our side."


	9. The Smith Refuses

_**21 Last Seed, 4E 201, Whiterun**_

At first, Ivar planned to _sneak_ back into Whiterun for what remained of the night.

_Can't pretend I wasn't there. Can't pretend there wasn't a dragon. I can still say Irileth and her men did all the fighting and killed the beast. That should work until morning. Long enough for me to take to the road again, and find some place very far away from this Dragonborn nonsense._

_Bound to be some village in Skyrim, well off the beaten track, where they need a smith._

Then, just as he was about to turn up the road to the Whiterun gates, it happened.

Thunder cracked out of a clear sky. The earth trembled beneath his feet. Birds rose, startled, in a clatter of wings. The horses in a nearby stable shifted and neighed in fear.

Voices spoke a single word in unison, loud as the battle-cry of a god.

"**Dovahkiin!"**

Ivar stopped cold in his tracks, a deep chill running and down his spine. His head snapped around, looking up into the night, to the pinnacle of the Throat of the World on the distant horizon.

_Divines! Something up there just __**called**__ me._

He felt a rising anger, an urge to respond, as if an enemy had shouted his name with contempt.

_No. No, damn it. I am not Dragonborn. Whoever you are, you will not pull my strings._

He continued to trudge up the road, like any weary soldier looking forward to a mug of ale and his bunk at the end of the day.

"You there!"

Ivar looked up. The jarl's guards clustered around the city gates, an unusual number of them posted for this late in the evening.

Above them, standing on the walls, Ivar saw a swarm of people. Half of Whiterun seemed to be there, pale faces staring down at him, eager for news.

"What can you tell us?" demanded the guard-captain who had hailed him. "Was it a dragon?"

Ivar shambled forward, suddenly feeling bone-weary. "It was a dragon. It's dead now."

He heard a ripple of voices from the town-folk on the walls.

The guard-captain turned to shout up at them. "Right, then! Dragon's dead, nothing more to see, and you lot are all breaking curfew! Down off the walls, get back to your homes, there'll be more news in the morning!"

The gates opened. For a few moments the town-folk surrounded Ivar, all of them staring at him, full of questions. Somehow he managed to avoid giving answers, pushing his way through the throng and winning free to the street beyond.

_I should report to the jarl._

_No, to Oblivion with that. Irileth will be back soon, she can report to her master._

_I need . . ._

Ivar wasn't sure what he needed. He had changed.

Most of him wanted nothing more than to slide into some dark hole and hide.

Part of him wanted something else. Wanted the awe of the guards who had watched him _eat_ that dragon's soul. Wanted the admiration of the crowd of town-folk. Wanted to step into a role he sensed stood ready for him: warrior, hero, conqueror.

_No. I'm just a smith. Never wanted more than that. Never deserved more than that._

Ivar glanced up. His wandering feet had taken him to the market square, now almost deserted. Lights shone out from the windows of the inn just ahead, and he could hear voices.

He climbed the steps and passed through the door, into warm firelight and the smell of food.

Even as he sat down at a table, he could feel something relax deep inside his soul. He ordered buttered bread, a bowl of beef stew, and a tankard of mead. The food arrived promptly and tasted very fine. Ivar listened to a bard, who turned out much better than the one in Riverwood.

Then the bard began singing a new song.

"_Our hero, our hero claims a warrior's heart. I tell you, I tell you the Dragonborn comes . . ."_

Ivar found his right hand bunching into a fist.

Abruptly, he stood and dropped a few coins on the table. Then he found the proprietor, an elderly Nord who supervised her little domain from a stool behind the bar.

"Is everything to your liking?" she quavered.

"The food was fine, thank you." Ivar heard tension in his voice, and forced himself to be calm. "I'll need a room for the night. With a warm bed."

The crone nodded, her eyes glittering in the firelight. "Room is ten septims. The bed is another ten."

Ivar counted his coins out onto the counter. When the old woman reached for them, he seized her wrist, gently but very firmly. "How much does the girl get?" he asked quietly.

"My cut's two septims," said the old woman calmly. "She gets the rest, and anything else you might decide to give her."

"Good. Give me half a glass to get out of my gear."

In his room, Ivar couldn't hear the bard anymore. He still found his hands shaking as he unbuckled his armor, set aside his weapons, and washed in a basin of clean water.

The door opened and closed again, very quietly.

Ivar usually prided himself on seeing to his lover's pleasure before his own. That night an urgent demand welled up in him. He stripped her out of her clothes, lost himself in the perfect line of her neck and jaw, the sweetness of her lips, the warm mass of her breasts, the rich curve of her hips, the soft skin of her thighs. At least she seemed willing if not eager, showing no sign of fear or resentment. No doubt she had seen worse.

Afterward they lay quietly in the bed, Ivar's arm now gentle around the tavern girl's body. She relaxed against him, the scent of her hair in his nostrils.

"Hmm," he murmured, already half asleep. "What's your name?"

She spoke for the first time, her voice like low music.

"Saadia."


	10. The Jarl Decrees

_**22 Last Seed, 4E 201, Dragsonreach**_

Ivar stood before the jarl's throne, the focus of all eyes. Balgruuf slouched in his seat, his steward Proventus Avenicci on his right hand, his brother Hrongar looming large on his left.

"So," said the jarl. "Irileth gave me a report, but I suspect she left out some details. Not that I'm unhappy with her. She's a hard-headed pragmatist, and that's kept us alive more times than I can count. On the other hand, it means she's not the best witness for some things. I want to hear your story. What happened at the watch-tower, when the dragon came?"

"We battled the beast. Irileth and your men fought like champions, my lord, you should be proud of them." With great reluctance, Ivar continued. "After the dragon died, some part of it came to me. The men called me . . . Dragonborn."

"Not just the men. The Greybeards seem to think the same."

"Has there been a message from them?"

"Certainly there has. You heard it after the dragon died. Reports have already come to us from as far away as Falkreath and Morthal, saying that _everyone_ in Skyrim heard it."

Ivar felt a chill, considering the raw power it would take to Shout so that men could hear many leagues away.

"They _summoned_ you, Ivar Ragnarsson." The jarl leaned forward on his throne, holding Ivar's gaze with his bright blue eyes. "They haven't done that in centuries, not since they called Hjalti Early-Beard to High Hrothgar."

_Hjalti Early-Beard_. _Also known to men as Talos Stormcrown, who became Emperor and later ascended to godhood. Talos best and most mighty! Is __**that**__ the shape of the legend these fools want me to fill?_

"If you really are Dragonborn, the first in two hundred years or more, then they can teach you how to use your gifts."

"I advise caution," said Proventus, the jarl's steward. "What does any of this Nord nonsense have to do with our friend here? Capable as he may be, I don't see any signs of him being this, what, _Dragonborn."_

Hrongar stepped forward, his beard bristling with outrage. "Nord nonsense? Why you puffed-up, ignorant . . . These are our sacred traditions, going back to the founding of the First Empire!"

"Hrongar, don't be so hard on Proventus. They've forgotten most of this, down in Cyrodiil."

"I meant no disrespect, of course," said the steward. "It's just that . . . what do the Greybeards want with this man?"

"That's their business," decreed the jarl, leaning back in his throne once more. "Not ours."

"What do you advise, my lord?" asked Ivar.

"You'd better get up to High Hrothgar immediately. There's no refusing the summons of the Greybeards. It's a tremendous honor." Balgruuf sighed. "I envy you. To climb the Seven Thousand Steps. I made the pilgrimage once, but now there never seems to be the time. High Hrothgar is a very peaceful place. Very disconnected from the troubles of this world."

Ivar frowned, wondering how he could refuse.

"I wonder that the Greybeards even notice what's going on down here. They haven't seemed to care before," The jarl shrugged. "No matter. Go to High Hrothgar. Learn what the Greybeards can teach you. That's my advice."

"My lord," objected Ivar in a low voice. "What if I find that my path lies elsewhere?"

Balgruuf's eyes flashed for an instant, but then his face took on a bland expression. "Well, that's between you, your conscience, and your gods. If you're not ready, you're not ready."

Ivar took a deep breath. "Thank you, my lord. I'll consider what you've said."

"Do that." The jarl watched Ivar shrewdly. "In the meantime, you've done a great service for me and my city. Dragonborn."

Ivar made a half-bow. "Anyone would have done the same."

"If that were true, it would not have been such a great service. I wish to reward you, and I think you will find my accolade easier to bear than that of the Greybeards."

"Of that I have no doubt, my lord."

"Then by my right as Jarl of Whiterun, I name you a Thane of this holding. It's the greatest honor within my power to grant."

Ivar frowned, but in thought rather than in refusal.

_I had thought to make a home for myself somewhere in Skyrim, to work as a smith. To be Thane . . . to hold land and property, to provide military service, to aid and counsel the jarl? To accept noble status, something I could pass along to my own children?_

_I could accept that. Especially from this man, who rules his people well and does his best to stay out of the foolish quarrels of others. I could even set up a forge on my land, and keep up with my craft._

He took a deep breath and committed himself. "My lord, I accept."

"Good," said the jarl in satisfaction. "There's land available for a new Thane, twelve hides of it east of the city, already cleared and farmed. We can also find a house for you here inside the walls. I will want you close at hand. Proventus will see to the arrangements."

The steward bowed silently.

"You'll need a housecarl to serve as your strong right arm," the jarl continued. "Hrongar, what do you think?"

The big warrior examined Ivar with a critical eye. "Lydia is ready."

Balgruuf stared at his brother in surprise. "I wouldn't have expected that."

"She chose the life of a shield-maiden," said Hrongar with a shrug. "She'll find fame aplenty in this one's service."

"So be it." The jarl turned back to Ivar, just a hint of warning in his eye. "Lydia is a fine warrior, strong and quick. She burns to make her name in the world. She also happens to be Hrongar's daughter."

Ivar nodded. "I understand, my lord."

_Well, that's plain enough_, he thought. _It will be interesting to have a woman in my household who is most assuredly off limits._


	11. Housecarl

_**23 Last Seed, 4E 201, North of Whiterun**_

Ivar peered through his cover, looking down a gentle slope toward a log palisade.

_One. Two. Three. Four . . . probably more, but that's all I can see at the moment. One woman on lookout duty, on that platform at the near corner of the palisade. The other three don't look very alert, working on noisy tasks. Chopping wood, butchering that mammoth carcass, maintaining their tools._

_These bandits are a little better organized. Seem to have a way to make a living other than just preying on travelers. How well will they fight?_

He glanced to the side and nodded to himself with approval. Lydia clearly understood stealth: flat on the ground behind good cover, breathing controlled, and never staring directly at any of the targets. She might be a thane's daughter and the jarl's niece, but her combat training hadn't been neglected.

Ivar made careful hand signals. The two of them slowly elbow-walked back into complete concealment.

"How do you want to do this, my lord?" asked Lydia in a low murmur.

"How is your archery?"

The housecarl gave him a sharp glance, somehow combining deference and wounded pride.

"All right," said Ivar with a small smile. "We're going to ease up again and take a position on top of this hillock. I want you to take the sentry on that platform. I'll take one of the ones working just inside that open gate."

"They'll know we're here, whether we hit our targets or not," she pointed out.

"True. If they're smart, they will stay in their palisade and we fade into the countryside, to come back later. I'm betting they won't be very smart."

Lydia nodded in understanding and set to work.

Ivar spared a moment to appreciate his housecarl, as she prepared her bow and set six arrows point-down in the ground before her. He saw a strong woman, athletic, graceful from many hundreds of hours of training, with bright eyes, strong features, dark close-cropped hair, and a forthright expression.

_Never saw many warrior-women in Cyrodiil. This is one Nord tradition I can thoroughly approve. She's not at all a woman to trifle with, of course._

Then he became aware of nothing but the longbow in his hands, the feel of tension in the stave and the string, the arrow in its place, the breeze against his left cheek, the wide silence of the plain for miles around.

Heartbeat slows. Breath slows. Time seems to stretch out. Sight on the target, correct slightly for the distance, correct again for the wind.

Release.

Ivar heard the _twang_ of Lydia's shot a shaved instant after his own. Then he reached for his second arrow, not even looking, watching the flight of his own shot instead. Watching as the arrow struck home _exactly_ between the shoulder-blades of his target, just as the bandit raised an axe over his head to split a piece of firewood. The bandit's body arched backward, the axe falling from nerveless fingers, and he toppled.

_Best bow-shot of my entire life,_ _and none but a single housecarl to see it_.

The sentry fell backward off her platform, Lydia's arrow through her throat.

_Of course, she may not find my shooting all that impressive._

Shouts of alarm, from down in the palisade. Several voices.

_Must have been more bandits we didn't see. No surprises there. Time for a real fight._

The bandits proved to be of the stupid variety. They boiled out of the palisade, three of them, four, then five, searching the open country for archers. Spotting Ivar and Lydia, they shouted curses and charged forward.

Only one of them carried a bow of his own. Ivar turned slightly to target this one, and missed. Lydia had more skill, or better luck. The bandit went down with a shaft in his right shoulder, still alive but no longer much of a threat.

Ivar shot, then shot again, and then dropped his bow. He could hear Lydia's sword sing as it leaped from her scabbard. Then a bandit reached the top of their little hill, all foul stink and decayed teeth and wild eyes, a war-hammer already poised to swing.

Ivar interposed his shield – _bang!_ – but stayed light on his feet, letting his enemy's weapon pull him off balance. A slash with his sword opened a wound across the bandit's chest, wide and bloody but not very deep.

The bandit snarled and recovered, swung his weapon again.

This time Ivar got the timing right. Shield held at just the right angle, the war-hammer deflected to slam into the dirt to Ivar's right. Sword already in motion, in a great arc. Spray of blood as the point of the blade tore the bandit's throat out.

Ivar turned in time to see the last bandit go down, with a horrified expression on his face and Lydia's sword in his gut.

All was quiet.

"Nicely done," was Ivar's only comment.

"Thank you, my lord."

"You've fought bandits before."

"More than once." She gave him a grim smile. "My father wasn't pleased when I took up the warrior's trade, but once he saw my commitment he refused to shield me from the consequences."

"Wise man." Ivar looked around. "Come, let's strip the bodies and investigate the palisade. There may be more bandits about, and I want to be halfway back to Whiterun before they learn we've been here."

"Shouldn't we destroy the whole gang before we depart?"

The smith shook his head. "No. Aside from defending the jarl's domain, we're after loot. Gold for our pockets and metal for the forge. We can only take so much, even if you _are_ sworn to carry my burdens."

Lydia looked mutinous, if only for a moment.

"Don't worry, housecarl, we'll be back. The meal always tastes better when you don't try to cram all of it down your gullet at once."

"I suppose so."

Fifteen minutes later, they were on their way home, laden with the spoils of war.


	12. The Game of Seduction

_**24 Last Seed, 4E 201, Whiterun**_

The Nord girl glanced at Ivar with appreciation. "You took down two mammoth?"

"No, lass. Bandits had a deadfall trap. They drove mammoth into the trap, then hauled the carcasses out to butcher them for hides and meat. My housecarl and I took down the bandits instead."

"I see." She bent close to examine the tusks Ivar had brought to market. "These are very fine. What do you intend to do with them?"

"I was hoping you might handle their sale for me."

Two very wide hazel eyes. "My lord . . ."

"I happened to overhear." Ivar smiled at her. "You're hoping to learn the merchant's trade from one of the Khajiit caravan masters. That's a good choice. They certainly know how to bargain. But he demanded a mammoth tusk as the price for his instruction. And you're but a slender lass with no weapon-skill."

"That's true." Ysolda looked down at her feet. "I think it's a test. To see if I can parley the few gold coins I have into something rare and valuable, all on my own."

"Well, this is your chance. I want you to get the best price you can for three mammoth tusks."

The girl blinked in confusion. "But there are four tusks here."

"The fourth one is for you. Pick out the best of the lot. Consider it your commission on the deal."

"Oh!" She reached out to run her hand along one of the tusks, feeling the smooth ivory under her fingertips. "I hardly know what to say."

"I believe the custom is to say _thank you,"_ observed Ivar.

"Thank you!" She jumped up to embrace him with enthusiasm, brushing his lips with hers for a moment. Then she was away, chattering about her plans to surprise the caravan when next it came to Whiterun.

_Well. I think this is the first time I've ever heard of a __**mammoth tusk**__ being used as a gift in a campaign of seduction_. _I suppose one could consider that suggestive. Although I trust the girl won't expect me to be built to quite the same scale._

Whistling, he turned and climbed the steps of the Bannered Mare.

The evening crowd had not yet arrived. Only a few townsfolk sat in the common room, enjoying an early dinner and listening as Mikael played a tune. Ivar exchanged a glance with Huldah behind her bar. The landlady nodded slightly.

He stepped into the kitchen. A lovely dark-haired woman straightened up from the cooking spit, smiling when she saw who stood in the doorway.

"Hello, Saadia."

* * *

Ivar rolled to one side, breathing hard, looking up at the ceiling in the dim candlelight.

The woman beside him stretched luxuriously, growling softly in delight. "That was quite lovely, my lord."

He propped himself on one elbow, enjoying the sight of her, magnificently naked in his bed.

_This has to be the best way to start off life in a new house_. _Not to mention it's more private than a little room at the inn._

"Now, aren't you glad I convinced you to take the night off?"

"Who said anything about that?" She watched him with a lazy smile and cold blue eyes. "I expect to be paid in full."

He caressed her breast and smiled. "Perhaps we can negotiate. I might be able to do you a favor."

"How so?"

"That depends on whether _you_ are the Redguard woman for whom Alik'r warriors are scouring the countryside."

She stared at him for a frozen moment, and then her nails flew for his face.

He caught her wrist in a smith's vice-like grip, threw a leg over her to pin her in place. "Rude."

"Let me go, or you'll walk out of here a gelding!" she hissed.

"You don't appear to have anything sharp enough about you. Unless you plan to use your teeth. Which would be almost as unpleasant for you as it would be for me." Ivar gave her a warm smile. "Truly, love, I have no design against you, other than to tumble you again in a few minutes. I only wish to hear your story, and do you a good turn if I can."

She stared into his eyes, a few inches from her own. Slowly, she relaxed.

"Yes. I'm the one the Alik'r seek," she said at last. "I hoped they would lose track of me. I didn't even know they had reached Whiterun."

He released her, gave her a clear opportunity to leave his bed if she wished. "Why?"

"I am . . . I _was_ a noble of House Suda, in Hammerfell." She sighed and lay still, watching him closely. "The Alik'r are assassins, hired by the Aldmeri Dominion."

Shock ran cold down Ivar's spine. "Why would the Dominion want you dead?"

"I spoke out against them in public. My family disowned me, stripped me of everything I had. I had to run for my life, take on a new identity. I guess living as a tavern wench in Skyrim wasn't quite enough."

Ivar felt his free hand clench into a fist. "Damn the Dominion."

She shifted and turned toward him, raised a hand to caress his face. "You have no love for them?"

"I despise them." He looked into her eyes. "If the Dominion is your enemy, then I am your friend. How may I serve you?"

She frowned, her eyes shadowed, thinking hard. "I suspect the Alik'r are led by a man named Kematu. Find him and kill him. The others will scatter."

"How do I find him?"

She smiled and pressed closer. "There's a Redguard warrior in the dungeon at Dragonsreach. Doubtless one of his men, captured by the jarl's guards. Question him as to Kematu's location."

"I will." He kissed her, felt himself stir in response to her warmth and scent. "I will kill this assassin, and you will be safe."

"Yes." She put her hand behind his neck, pulling him close. "Safe, and most grateful to my liberator."


	13. Balgruuf's Feast

_**25 Last Seed, 4E 201, Dragonsreach**_

"I must admit," said the jarl around a mouthful of beef, "naming you the new Thane of Scarstone was one of the better moves I've ever made. Only three days, and you've dealt with _two_ dragons, not to mention the bandits hiding out at Halted Stream and Hidden Moons."

"Not to mention Fort Greymoor," rumbled Hrongar. "Those ruins have been a thumb in our eye for far too long."

"I'm glad to have been of service," said Ivar, taking a deep swallow of the jarl's mead. It was _very_ good. "I'm still wondering what inspired you to invite me to this feast."

The hall of Dragonsreach roared with talk and the sounds of people enjoying a rich meal. Had Ivar been placed anywhere but at the jarl's right hand, conversation at anything less than a shout would have been impossible. Ivar glanced down the table and saw other thanes, their personal guards, mages, priests, merchants, and prosperous farmers. Lydia sat about halfway down the right-side table, looking very much at ease in such exalted company.

_Well, she was born to it,_ he thought to himself. _Whereas I'm here as nothing more than the joke of some god._

"It seemed a good idea to show you off to the other nobles of my hold," said Balgruuf. "You may benefit from knowing some of them."

"Also, some of them need a reminder of who is in charge," said Proventus.

"That too." The jarl waved to a serving-maid for a refill of his tankard. "Most of all, I wanted to reward you for your hard work."

"Thank you, my lord."

"Don't thank me yet. The reward for work well done is more work." The jarl stretched out a hand to Proventus, who handed over a sealed letter. "This came to Dragonsreach today, addressed to you."

"What is it?" asked Ivar, accepting the letter.

"It's from that milk-drinker Siddgeir," said the jarl. "As of four months ago, my unpleasant neighbor. The Jarl of Falkreath."

Ivar opened the sealed packet and glanced at the contents. "The jarl has a good hand."

"Hah!" Balgruuf thumped his tankard on the table, almost spilling his drink. "The drunken piss-pot probably can't even sign his own name, much less produce fine diplomatic prose. No doubt his steward drafted that for him. Clever wench. An Altmer named Nenya, who's served his house for decades."

Ivar read the letter with more careful attention, and then nearly dropped his own tankard. "Divines! He's inviting me to come take service in his own holding. Offers me the chance to take a thane's seat in the court of Falkreath."

Hrongar growled, and at first Ivar was concerned. Then he saw the burly thane handing a small coin-purse to Proventus, who looked smug.

Balgruuf smiled genially. "Yes, yes, Proventus, you won your bet. Try not to rub it in for the next month."

"You knew?" asked Ivar accusingly.

"We guessed," said the steward. "Falkreath Hold has fallen on very hard times, and Siddgeir is hardly a lord to inspire much confidence on his own. Also, two of the traditional thane-seats of Falkreath have been empty for years. Now someone there – Nenya, most likely – hears about a new warrior-hero in Skyrim. A Dragonborn, no less. If you can be tempted into taking land and title in Siddgeir's hold, his grip on his grandfather's holding becomes a little more secure."

"Man has a lot of cheek, offering to poach one of _my_ thanes," said Balgruuf.

Ivar nodded. "Then I will refuse, of course."

"No, no," said the jarl quickly. "Don't misunderstand me. If the offer interests you, I _want_ you to take it."

"I don't understand."

"Politics," said Balgruuf, his tone that of a man tasting something foul. "I may not have known you for long, but I'm a good judge of character. You're the son of Ragnar the Smith, and blood will tell. You're a man of honor and I believe I can trust you. Even if you end up sitting on Siddgeir's council as well as mine."

"We believe we know what thane-seat Siddgeir will offer," said Proventus. "The land is on the south shore of Lake Ilinalta, not far from the border with Whiterun Hold. It's part of the old holding of Morgate. As I said, _fallen on hard times_, almost entirely gone to wilderness, with most of the carls and cottars fled. You'll have a chance to build it back up the way you like it."

"I see," said Ivar, nodding slowly. "You and Siddgeir aren't easy neighbors, so you want someone you know on his council, and holding the lands just across the border from Riverwood."

"That's right," said the jarl. "It will be much less likely for Whiterun and Falkreath to come to blows, if you're there to help keep the jarl occupied with his feasts, his hunting, and his wenching. Make friends with Nenya while you're at it, and she will help. It's a good opportunity for you. If I can't prevail upon you to go see the Greybeards as you should, that is."

"I'm still weighing your advice about that in my mind." Ivar took a deep breath. "Never thought I'd hold _one_ thane's seat, much less two, but you're right. It's a good opportunity, especially if it helps keep the peace in this part of Skyrim. I'll consider it."

The jarl reached out to grasp Ivar's forearm with one hand. "Good. _Good_."

Ivar nodded, taking another healthy drink of mead. "In the meantime, my lord, there's something else on which I want to ask your advice."

"Certainly."

"You fought in the Great War as a young man, did you not?"

"I did. Hrongar as well, and that's where I met Irileth. You'll find a lot of torn-up veterans in my court."

"Then you know the men of Hammerfell," said Ivar slowly.

"As well as any outsider may know them."

"Then here is my question . . ." Ivar leaned close, so that none but the jarl could hear.


	14. The Thread of Reason

_**26 Last Seed, 4E 201, Swindler's Den**_

"That's far enough!"

Ivar froze, crouching low so as not to bang his head on stone, cold water rushing past his ankles. Behind him, Lydia stopped motionless as well.

_So much for stealth_, he thought in disgust.

"You've done well to track us down, and fight your way through those bandits in the outer caves." The voice carried confidence and strength, and just a trace of Hammerfell accent. "This doesn't have to end in bloodshed."

Slowly, carefully, knowing full well that someone watched from out in the darkness, Ivar sheathed his sword. At a gesture, Lydia did the same. They waded forward, emerging into a high-vaulted cavern and the dim light of torches.

Perhaps a dozen Redguard warriors stood around the edges of the chamber, some of them with bows at the ready. Ivar estimated the odds and found them very poor. He searched until he found one with the appearance of a leader.

"I assume you're Kematu," Ivar called.

The man inclined his head regally.

"I've been sent to kill you," said the smith, smiling and making no move toward his weapons.

A dozen men leaned forward, bows drawn to greater tension, hands tight on the hilts of curved swords. Only Kematu did not move.

Ivar's smile grew wide and warm, teeth gleaming in his beard. "I'm beginning to think that would not be wise."

Finally, Kematu made a gesture of command. All around the cavern, warriors eased back from the brink.

Ivar accepted the unspoken invitation, climbing up from the bottom of the chamber to approach the Redguard leader, still careful to keep hands well away from weapons. Lydia followed, trying to glare in every direction at once.

"I've been hearing about you," said Kematu at last. "The new thane at Balgruuf's court."

"That would be me. I'm also the acquaintance of a certain Redguard woman in Whiterun. About so tall, exceedingly well-formed, with skin like rich dark soil, hair like midnight, and a pair of very cold blue eyes. About forty years of age, perhaps more, although she carries her years very well. Sound familiar?"

"By what name do you know her?"

"Why don't you tell me that?" Ivar asked slowly.

"She has used many names, but the most likely ones are Shazra, or Saadia." Kematu smiled, not unkindly. "I wonder, did she appeal to your sense of honor? Your greed? A more . . . _base_ need, perhaps?"

"Saadia it was," said Ivar, "and my motivations are none of your business."

"No shame to you. She is a past master of manipulation. Even of seduction." Kematu shrugged. "It doesn't matter. No doubt she has convinced you that she is a victim."

"Something like that. Why don't you tell me why you pursue her?"

"She is wanted by the noble houses of Taneth for treason. We were hired to see to it that she returns to Hammerfell to answer for her crimes."

"She betrayed her city to the Aldmeri Dominion," Ivar stated flatly.

Lydia stared at her thane.

"That is true. How did you know?"

"She was careless in her choice of lies," said the smith. "She told me that she is a fugitive because she _opposed_ the Dominion in Hammerfell, that her family and city cast her out for it. Now, I've never been to Hammerfell, but I've spoken to those who know your people. Your hatred for the Aldmeri is old and bitter. You broke free of the Empire in order to oppose them. You even buried your own internal feuds, some of them centuries old, to oppose them. Why would any Redguard be exiled for speaking out _against_ the Dominion?"

"No people are entirely unified in anything," pointed out Kematu. "Her family might have been one of those few who opposed the resistance."

"Perhaps . . . but I also applied my own reason. If she's an enemy of the Aldmeri, why would a band of Alik'r warriors be sent to pursue her? The Dominion has many agents in Skyrim, wandering the land openly, dealing with their enemies as they please. None of the jarls loyal to the Empire dare oppose them. A Thalmor execution team could hunt Saadia down at will."

"On the other hand, if she was an agent of the Thalmor, she could run to their protection."

Ivar frowned. "True."

"We don't know why she hasn't done that." Kematu shrugged. "Maybe she knows full well what contempt the Thalmor hold for all men and women, even their own agents."

"That makes sense. In any case, I have . . . spent time with Saadia twice. The first time, she did not know who I was, but by morning she would have had to be deaf not to hear the rumors. No secret that the man she met the night before was the jarl's new thane, and no friend to the Dominion. So she knew what story to tell me on the second occasion. Perhaps she thought me too simple to look deeply into her lies. Or she thought I would do anything for a lover, and not ask questions."

"So you did lie with her," Kematu murmured. "You should be more careful around a pretty face."

Ivar snorted. "I'm my own man, Alik'r, and I serve my own ends. No one buys me, not with title, not with gold, not with a night's pleasure."

"Good. What do you plan to do now?"

The smith stared into the Redguard warrior's eyes. "Do you give me your word, by the honor of your clan and your guild, that you do not seek her death?"

"I give you my word. Her death is for the elders of Taneth to decide, and that after a fair hearing." Kematu extended his hand for Ivar to grasp. "Who knows? Perhaps she will be able to defend herself. That's not my concern. My commission is to take her home unharmed."

Ivar took the other man's hand, squeezing hard and feeling wiry strength in response. "So be it."


	15. Falkreath

_**28 Last Seed, 4E 201, Falkreath**_

After a time, Ivar looked up and saw the Falkreath gates standing open in the distance.

_Not a bad morning's walk, from Riverwood._

Ivar strode forward, watching the two men standing guard. Then he slowed, the greeting dying on his lips, as he realized they were paying him no attention at all.

"_By the gods!"_

One of the guards abandoned his post, dashing into the town. "Everyone inside, _now!"_

Ivar frowned. _Do they have this reaction every time a stranger turns up at the gate?_

Then he heard it, the rush of air over great leathery wings, _much_ too close.

By the time the dragon made its first roar and settled atop the jarl's longhouse, Ivar had already run into the center of town and unslung his bow. He fired once, then twice. Falkreath guards came running from all sides, using their own bows.

The dragon spoke, and _fire_ washed out across the attacking guards. Ivar heard screams, as at least one of the men went up like a torch. The thatch roofs of two buildings ignited.

Ivar growled and ran forward, just as the dragon lifted into the air once more. His head swiveled, following the worm's progress through the sky. He fired twice more, missing both times.

_Damn. How do we get that thing to land? Preferably before it burns the town to the ground?_

It swooped low then hovered for a moment, its scaly head scanning the streets below.

Ivar didn't have time to think. He took a deep breath, opened his mouth wide . . .

"**Fus!**"

The Shout had almost no effect against the dragon's bulk, but it _did_ attract the creature's attention. Its head snapped around, and two malicious eyes stared down at the smith.

Ivar fired again, the arrow flying true for the space between the dragon's eyes, and he had the satisfaction of seeing it flinch slightly.

It opened its mouth. Ivar had a moment to realize that he stood much too far from any possible cover. Then he dropped his bow and desperately brought his shield up to protect his face and eyes. He heard the dragon's voice . . .

It seemed rather like standing _in_ the forge-fire for an instant. Bright light, blazing heat, enough to curl the tiny hairs on his arms and raise a few blisters.

Then the dragon made a groaning roar and crashed to the earth. Ivar lowered his shield a fraction and blinked, seeing three arrows sunk into the thing's long neck. Some guardsmen must have gotten lucky.

He put the pain of his burns out of his mind, drew his sword, and _charged_.

"To Oblivion with you, worm! You think a smith is going to fear _flame?"_

Then he stood directly before the beast's head, sea-grey eyes against virulent yellow eyes, bashing with his shield.

"**Fus!**"

The dragon flinched once more. Ivar took advantage of its momentary distraction, hewed with his sword.

The Falkreath guards saw their chance. They moved in on both of the dragon's flanks, some of them continuing to pepper it with arrows, others advancing with spears.

One spear punched through under the dragon's wing. It _hissed_, like a white-hot blade plunging into a cold quenching bath, and turned to snap at its tormentors.

With a yell, Ivar sprang. He landed _on_ the dragon's head, held on just long enough to drive his sword down like a spike behind the beast's skull.

It howled and died.

Ivar stepped down, backed away, wondering what would happen next. His answer arrived almost at once. In full view of the jarl's guards and half the civilian population of Falkreath, the dragon began to dissolve into a roar of golden light. The light spiraled upward, and then swept down to wrap the smith in its wings, skittering and writhing over his form until it all of it was consumed.

An awed silence spread, broken only by the sound of burning thatch.

Ivar looked around at all the staring eyes, his heartbeat and breath falling back to normal.

_I appear to have made a very dramatic entrance._

"By the gods," whispered one of the guardmen. "Dragonborn?"

"So it would seem," said Ivar. "Shouldn't you be putting out those fires?"

"Oblivion take you, don't stand around gawking!" Someone new strode forward: a stocky man, older, with a bald head and a long steel-grey beard. "You, you, and you, get buckets. Aelfrith, get your cart over here to the inn's cistern. Is everyone out of those buildings?"

The old man's voice carried the ring of command. People rushed to obey.

Ivar cleaned his sword, returned it to the scabbard, went to pick up his bow.

The old man watched, and then stepped close to offer his hand. "Dengeir of Stuhn. Until four months ago, I had the honor to be the Jarl of Falkreath."

"Ivar Ragnarsson."

"The new Thane of Scarstone, I'll wager. The one they're calling Dragonborn, up in Whiterun."

"Yes to the first. I'm not so sure of the second."

"After what we just saw? I know the old stories perfectly well, lad. If you're not Dragonborn, the gods are playing quite the joke on all of us."

"Hmm. I suspect there _is_ a joke involved, one way or the other."

"Come. You're here to talk to my nephew, I've no doubt. Let's you and I have a drink together first."

"What about putting the fires out?"

"The guards have it in hand, I'm too old to be carrying water, and you and I need to talk before you go see that worthless nephew of mine."

"As you wish, my lord."

The two men turned and walked together down the street, finding an establishment called the _Dead Man's Drink_. Dengeir led them inside.

"Shor's bones, a _handsome_ man in Falkreath!"

Ivar glanced aside. He saw a Nord girl, young and well-built, with russet hair and bright green eyes. She caught his glance and gave him a rather predatory smile.

_Well. Things are looking up._


	16. Siddgeir's Proposition

_**28 Last Seed, 4E 201, Falkreath**_

Jarl Siddgeir was not impressive.

Oh, he looked tall and handsome enough, and his arms and frame showed _some_ sign of exercise, but the more Ivar watched him, the more obvious it became that something rotten lurked within. He slouched on the jarl's seat, not a posture of watchful ease, but one of laziness and indulgence. A glass of fine drink never wandered far from his right hand, and the front of his tunic showed wine-stains. A half-eaten leg of chicken sat on a platter close by, slowly congealing in its own grease. The jarl's latest girl sat curled up at his feet, ignoring him as he idly toyed with her hair, a vacant expression on her face.

"We live well here in Falkreath," said the jarl, his full lips wrapping themselves sensually around each word. "Men say the holding has gone into decay. Nonsense! There's enough gold in this land to keep us in fine wine, the best of food, silks and spices, girls to warm our beds and bards to sing our glory, all for years to come. One only need know how and where to squeeze."

Movement, in the shadows behind the jarl's seat. Ivar's eyes flickered in that direction. Saw the tall figure of the jarl's steward standing there, an expression of grim distaste on her face.

"I came at your invitation, my lord," said Ivar neutrally.

"Yes. Quite." Siddgeir tapped at the girl's shoulder with his fingers. Without complaint, without much reaction at all, she rose and climbed into his lap where he could reach her with both hands. "Men say you are Dragonborn. Is this true?"

"I've helped to slay three dragons now. Each time, _something_ of the dragon came to me. I seem to be able to Shout, without having spent years atop the Throat of the World to learn." Ivar shrugged. "If I'm Dragonborn, I have no idea how or why."

"No need to question your good fortune. Revel in it, I say! Make use of it to win fame and wealth. I can help you in this. No sense permitting that grim bastard Balgruuf to lay sole claim to your service."

"You offered me a thane's portion."

"So I did." Siddgeir tore his attention away from the girl's white skin for a moment. "The old holding of Morgate, long abandoned. The seat is at a place called Lakeview. Quite beautiful, I am told, although there's nothing there at present but the burned-out shell of an old manor house. You will have the opportunity to rebuild it as you like."

"What must I do to earn this boon, my lord?"

"Direct. To the point. Very good." The jarl smiled. "There are two nests of bandits in the hills west of here. One of them is at Knifepoint Ridge, the other has moved recently and I have no intelligence as to where. You will find them and destroy them."

"I've killed bandits before, my lord."

"I know you have. Be very sure . . . I want no survivors. None at all."

Ivar frowned. "No prisoners for trial?"

"A waste of time." The jarl turned his attention back to the girl, burying his face in the angle of her neck and shoulder.

"As you wish, my lord."

One beringed hand emerged from the girl's blouse, made a gesture of dismissal.

Ivar bowed and backed away.

Standing on the porch of the longhouse, Ivar took a deep breath: crisp fall air, rendered only slightly bitter by the scent of smoke and dragon-fire. He felt cleaner than he had a moment before.

The door opened and closed behind him. "Dragonborn."

The jarl's steward, seen for the first time in the open light of day. Tall, yes, and well formed. Elegant face, tilted golden eyes, blonde hair in a widow's peak, bone structure sharp enough to cut glass. Rather exquisite, really.

_Of course she's Altmer, and probably ten times my age, and most likely considers me little more than a beast_._ Interesting that she isn't Thalmor. I do have to wonder what she's doing here, serving a human noble house that's so far decayed._

"My lady," Ivar murmured with a curt nod, one jarl's servant to another.

"I wish to speak with you, before you go about the jarl's business." Her voice was cool and musical. "There are forces at work here you must understand."

"I think I understand them well enough. Dengeir of Stuhn was ten times the jarl that spoiled puppy can manage, but Dengeir opposes the Empire, and so he had to go."

Nenya inclined her head. "Falkreath is not easy in its allegiance to the Empire. Many say that Ulfric Stormcloak has the right. Yet already the people of this holding suffer from brigandage and misrule. To permit the Stormcloaks free rein would add civil war to the tally . . . and we lie directly on the best travel routes from the south. If the Legions send reinforcements to General Tullius and find Falkreath in rebellion, the holding will burn. Not even Dengeir is willing to see that happen, and so Siddgeir rules in Falkreath."

"I understand. Siddgeir regards me as a shiny bauble to add to his collection." Ivar stared into the elf's tawny-gold eyes. "How do _you_ regard me?"

"As a tool," she said forthrightly. "One that I may wield to keep the peace."

The smith stepped close. "Beware, my lady. I am a tool that thinks. Do not expect to use me and then set me aside."

She stared into his eyes, level with her own, and a slow smile spread across her lips. "Do you think to bid for a more intimate partnership?"

Ivar snorted. "Hardly. You are no more to my taste than I imagine I am to yours. But my desires and yours seem likely to march together. I want a quiet place to live and prosper, nothing more."

"Well." She nodded, satisfied. "That much, I think we can win. If we work together."


	17. Shaggy Dog Story

_**31 Last Seed 4E201, Falkreath**_

Narri reached up, not quite touching the slender blade hanging from a peg on the wall. "It's beautiful."

"That it is," said Ivar, smiling and caressing her soft skin with one hand.

All the candles had been extinguished, but the room remained full of soft light. It sufficed to reveal the girl sharing Ivar's bed, throwing interesting shadows across her generous curves. The illumination came from a jewel set into the hilt of the sword, shining with the warm, golden light of the sun.

"Does it have a name?"

"_Dawnbreaker_. It's a thing of the _daedra_. A gift from Meridia."

Her eyes flew to his, wide with surprise. "How did you come by it?"

"Well. That's a _very_ long story . . ."

* * *

Ivar stood in the mist, not far from the town gates, peering about. He set his fingers to the corners of his mouth and whistled loudly.

Footfalls in the mist.

A dog: large, raw-boned, shaggy. It walked up to the smith and sat down.

"Well hello, boy."

"_Hello!"_

Ivar blinked in surprise. "You talk?"

"_Hmm. Skyrim is host to giant, flying lizards and two-legged cat-men, and you're surprised by me? Yes. I talk! And I will continue to do so."_

"Fair enough. There's a smith in the town who wants a dog . . ."

"_Oh no. I don't belong to any mortal. My master is Clavicus Vile, a prince of the daedra, and I want to return to him. Will you help me?"_

"If I say no?"

"_Then I suppose I'll be __**your**__ dog. Following you everywhere. Needing to be fed and walked at all hours. Barking at the most inconvenient moments. You get the picture."_

Ivar sighed. "All right, let's get you to your master."

"_Thank you! Only . . . when you see him, don't trust anything he offers you."_

"Noted."

* * *

"_Well, I don't actually want Barbas back. No, I'm afraid you will have to keep him."_

"I have no use for a dog, my lord, and he seems attached to you."

"_Ah well. I suppose we can make a deal. Yes! A deal! Go and bring me . . . an axe! But not just any old axe. I want the Rueful Axe, and will accept no substitutes! Bring it to me, and I will take Barbas back. Even if he does tend to shed all over the place . . . and bark, and push. Watch out for the pushing!"_

* * *

Cut, bruised, burned, exhausted, Ivar lowered his weapon and stood over the renegade mage's body.

_This is getting to be too much. Divines witness, I'm just a smith._

Barbas barked. The dog looked indecently intact, not a hair out of place.

"Yes, yes. Let's search for that axe your master insisted on finding."

A short search recovered the Rueful Axe, but Ivar remained unsatisfied. A few minutes more revealed a locked chest. Ivar made short work of the lock. Gold, finely crafted steel blades, and . . .

_Hmm. What's this?_

A strange artifact, carved out of some white stone, in the shape of an elaborate geometric solid. Ivar reached out to touch it . . .

"_At last! Another hand touches the beacon!"_

Ivar groaned.

_Can't I finish one quest before the gods decide to drop another on my head?_

* * *

"Damn you, Barbas! Stop pushing!"

The dog cocked his head with a quizzical look.

"Come shoving up behind me once more, and I swear by the Nine, I will _chain you to a tree._ You nearly pushed me right off the side of the mountain that time."

"_Woof!"_

* * *

One last room . . . _full_ of horrible shades, like scraps of blackest night given form.

_Talos best and most mighty. How do I fight these?_

Fortunately Barbas had no qualms. The hound charged, snarling and barking, leaping at the shades, tearing at them with his fangs. They swarmed about him and ignored the man standing in the doorway.

_Well. Good thing the hound is all but indestructible._

Ivar drew his bow and began to choose his shots with care.

* * *

High above Skyrim, in company with the Prince of the Dawn.

"_You have done well, my servant. My temple is clean once more. Take you now my sword. Carry it with you, use it to smite undead and all who fear the light, and proclaim my name to the world."_

Ivar nodded in agreement, enjoying the feel of the sword in his hand. "I will, great prince."

_Just so you put me down on my feet once more._

Another dizzying whirl, and he found himself standing by the _daedra_'s shrine once more. Barbas looked up at him, the dog's tongue lolling with idiot glee.

"Come on, boy. Time to take you home."

The hound barked happily.

* * *

"_So, what will it be? The hound or the axe?"_

"You offer to let me keep this axe, if I will murder your hound to get it."

"_That's the deal."_

"The Rueful Axe, which has never brought any of its owners anything but grief."

Silence.

"I am sorry, my lord. You may keep the axe, and I'm afraid you will have to keep the hound as well."

"_Hah! Well, it was worth a try. Come, Barbas!"_

The hound looked up at Ivar, a kindly light in his eyes. _"Thank you, smith. Good luck with you."_

Ivar waved, but the beast was already gone.

_Strange_, he thought as he prepared for the walk back to Falkreath. _As annoying as that animal was, I find I will miss him._

* * *

". . . and so, that's how I came to carry _Dawnbreaker_."

Ivar looked down. Narri lay wrapped around him, one arm and one leg thrown across his body, her head on his shoulder, fast asleep. Light fell across her shape, not from the sword, but from the morning sun shining through the window. The only sound was a dainty snore.

He shook his head in fond exasperation. "Well. I _told_ you it was a long story."


End file.
